Zara, the Bather

In a swinging hammock lying,Lightly flying,Zara, lovely indolent,O'er a fountain's crystal waveThere to laveHer young beauty--see her bent.

As she leans, so sweet and soft,Flitting oft,O'er the mirror to and fro,Seems that airy floating bat,Like a featherFrom some sea-gull's wing of snow.

Every time the frail boat ladenWith the maidenSkims the water in its flight,Starting from its trembling sheen,Swift are seenA white foot and neck so white.

As that lithe foot's timid tipsQuick she dips,Passing, in the rippling pool,(Blush, oh! snowiest ivory!)Frolic, sheLaughs to feel the pleasant cool.

Here displayed, but half concealed--Half revealed,Each bright charm shall you behold,In her innocence emerging,As a-vergingOn the wave her hands grow cold.

For no star howe'er divineHas the shineOf a maid's pure loveliness,Frightened if a leaf but quiversAs she shivers,Veiled with naught but dripping trees.

By the happy breezes fannedSee her stand,--Blushing like a living rose,On her bosom swelling highIf a flyDare to seek a sweet repose.

In those eyes which maiden prideFain would hide,Mark how passion's lightnings sleep!And their glance is brighter farThan the starBrightest in heaven's bluest deep.

O'er her limbs the glittering currentIn soft torrentRains adown the gentle girl,As if, drop by drop, should fall,One and allFrom her necklace every pearl.

Lengthening still the reckless pleasureAt her leisure,Care-free Zara ever slowAs the hammock floats and swingsSmiles and sings,To herself, so sweet and low.

"Oh, were I a capitana,Or sultana,Amber should be always mixtIn my bath of jewelled stone,Near my throne,Griffins twain of gold betwixt.

"Then my hammock should be silk,White as milk;And, more soft than down of dove,Velvet cushions where I sitShould emitPerfumes that inspire love.

"Then should I, no danger near,Free from fear,Revel in my garden's stream;Nor amid the shadows deepDread the peep,Of two dark eyes' kindling gleam.

"He who thus would play the spy,On the dieFor such sight his head must throw;In his blood the sabre nakedWould be slakèd,Of my slaves of ebon brow.

"Then my rich robes trailing showAs I go,None to chide should be so bold;And upon my sandals fineHow should shineRubies worked in cloth-of-gold!"

Fancying herself a queen,All unseen,Thus vibrating in delight;In her indolent coquettingQuite forgettingHow the hours wing their flight.

As she lists the showery tinklingOf the sprinklingBy her wanton curvets made;Never pauses she to thinkOf the brinkWhere her wrapper white is laid.

To the harvest-fields the while,In long file,Speed her sisters' lively band,Like a flock of birds in flightStreaming light,Dancing onward hand in hand.

And they're singing, every one,As they runThis the burden of their lay:"Fie upon such idleness!Not to dressEarlier on harvest-day!"